Limitless Evolution As a Snake

The three-story house stares back at me like it knows I’m a dickhead for even thinking about it. Three stories. That’s a long flight of stairs, not a life-ending plummet. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I slither up the brickwork, my scales digging into crumbling mortar. Falling on the way up would be a whole new level of embarrassing. My tongue flicks out, tasting rust and the familiar sewer tang, the official perfume of my second, stupid life.

The wolf women are still watching. Their pack has grown, a cluster of fur and leather at the end of the street. They’re not cops wrong posture, way too relaxed just locals who’ve decided a suicidal snake is the best entertainment on offer. One has her phone out, the lens a tiny black eye. I’m being filmed, awesome, perfect.

"You want me to smile for the camera?" I call down, and my voice comes out way smoother than I feel, which is becoming a problem- this whole external-interior disconnect where my mouth says cool shit and my brain is playing the opening notes of a nervous breakdown.

[System: yeah, nah, maybe don’t antagonise the wolf pack while you’re still figuring out how to not die on landing. Just a thought]

I reach the roof. Tin again, warm under the afternoon sun filtering through the grate openings, and there’s that satellite dish, bent at an angle like it gave up trying years ago. I coil up at the edge, tongue flicking, hood flaring just because it feels right, and for a second I just sit there.

Then I jump.

The word hits before I do "glide" and my wings snap out with that same aggressive pop, catching air that tastes suddenly cleaner, somehow, like the sewer filters itself for the three seconds I’m airborne, and I bank into a gentle curve that takes me past the parked cars, past the staring wolves, and down to the street with a landing that’s almost, almost graceful, except my tail gets tangled and I end up in a heap on the asphalt that looks exactly like a discount basilisk who has never once landed on purpose in his life.

[System: that’s the stuff. Tail’s still a bit cooked, but the rest is coming together. Proper good form on the bank there]

Thanks, I think.

I untangle myself, wings folding back into their little pockets with a sound like somebody zipping a duffel bag shut.

Can I go home now? Back to Lyra?

[System: hah. nah. you’ve done two jumps, and your landings still look like a drunk trying to fold a map; we’re not done, sunshine]

My eyes land on a warehouse half a block down, a jagged silhouette of corrugated metal and broken skylights. It’s at least a story taller; hell, I don’t need the pop-up ad in my brain to know it’s next.

[System: that’s the one. Proper five-story test, mate. get to it.]

I’m starting to hate you, but I’m already moving. The only thing worse than jumping is listening to Old Mate’s motivational speeches.

The warehouse wall is slick concrete with enough cracks to make it climbable, if you’re a snake with a serious commitment problem. My scales scrape against the surface, tongue flicking out on autopilot, tasting the air for whatever the hell I’m supposed to be tasting: danger? Probably, but all I get is damp concrete and the faint chemical burn of something industrial leaking from a pipe three blocks over.

I reach the roof. The view from here is different, not a good different; it’s still the sewer, still grimy and patched together and lit by the kind of lighting that makes everyone look like they’re recovering from food poisoning but higher different. I can see more of Twawi from here, the shacks and stalls stretching away into the tunnel darkness, the occasional flash of neon from a market stall, the distant glow of bioluminescent mould painting sections of wall in sickly green.

I coil at the edge. My hood flares. The wolf pack has multiplied, or maybe they’ve just brought friends, because there’s a solid dozen of them now, all just standing there watching, and one of them is definitely filming this, and I’m going to be on Undercity TikTuk or whatever the hell they use down here, and my legacy will be a snake repeatedly throwing himself off buildings while an invisible Australian narrates.

I jump.

The word hits, glide, wings snap, and for exactly one perfect second it works: I catch the air, bank hard right, feel the thermal wind lift under my leather wings like a hand pushing up from below, and I think.

Holy shit, I’m actually doing this.

Then the thermal dies, or shifts, or the sewer gods decide they’ve had enough of my shit for one day, and I drop like a rock.

I don’t hit the ground. Pure panic makes me flare everything my cobra hood, wings, tail and the sudden drag yanks me horizontal. My wings catch dirty air just inches from the street, sending me skimming across the asphalt. I taste rubber from a parked car’s tyre before instinct makes me bank hard, using the last of my momentum to whip up into a panicked arc that stalls out around a streetlight three feet off the ground. My heart hammers like it’s trying to break out.

[System: yeah, nah, a bit rough. That panicked flare is a valid move, though. Ugly as sin, but you stuck it. streetlight counts.]

Sort of.

I gasp, unwinding myself from the pole with as much dignity as a snake who just faceplanted an invisible air pocket can muster.

Can we be done? Please? I’ve done three jumps. That’s three more than any sensible snake would do in a day.

[System: reckon we change venue. You’re getting the hang of the gliding, but the landing’s still a bit cooked, and these thermals are shite. Need somewhere with proper air movement]

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